The Day’s Local Color

A megaphone blasts the garbled monotones of a fruit-seller, a fruit truck, driving by beneath my window; cats wail, cats scream, somewhere nearby; brown dragonflies dart through the air; a midget was on the subway standing beside an electric wheelchair, and although he soon sat down, his feet didn’t reach the floor; two young boys punched each other and laughed on the subway; two young women in very skimpy blue cheerleader outfits were dancing on raised platforms, almost on pillars like living (if lackadaisical) caryatids, near the entrance to a shopping center; they danced to roaring KPOP, which is the same as any kind of pop, except for the K; a girl declared in class that she planned to spend her summer dieting, though she was not in any way fat; the fruit truck is still making the rounds of the neighborhood in the time it’s taken me to write this, climbing the unimaginably steep streets and weaving around the cars parked near the wretched sewers, filling the air with its faint and unending advertisement.

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